


come to dust

by tomorrowsrain



Series: The Inseparables [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Developing Friendships, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, any additional warnings in chapter summaries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowsrain/pseuds/tomorrowsrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Men, women, and children are disappearing from the streets of Paris and Athos is battling the spectre of the past. Then, one summer morning, there is a familiar necklace pinned to his door by a familiar dagger - a jagged crack in his carefully constructed world. </p><p>Sequel to freeze, freeze thou bitter sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off I AM SO SORRY. I was fully planning on posting this, uh, three-and-a-half months ago but then my life and mental health decided to suddenly take a spectacular nosedive and go completely to shit. Which meant no time, energy, or really mental capacity to write pretty much anything besides my weekly grocery list (and even that was spotty sometimes.) 
> 
> But I'm getting back on track now and didn't want to abandon this. So here we go. Updates are going to be slower than the previous story, just to warn you, as I don't have any buffer before posting like I usually try to, but this is me committing so hopefully you lovely people can bear with me. :) 
> 
> TL;DR: Sorry for the epic delay. Enjoy the story. 
> 
> Title from William Shakespeare's Fear No More.

**Intro:**

_Set several months after d’Artagnan has fallen into company with the Musketeers – most likely between episodes five and six in the first series. Events up until this point have remained largely the same, with a few changes:_

_They did not stop at Athos’ estate in “Commodities,” as it no longer belongs to him. Also, because of his changed name, (going with the idea of his real name being Olivier de la Fere) though Milady is in service to the Cardinal and he the Musketeers, they are not yet aware of each other’s presence. In episode one, Milady targeted Athos simply because he was known to be Tréville’s lieutenant and never actually saw his face._

_Aramis, knowing that d’Artagnan’s father was their saviour five years ago, convinced Athos to allow the boy into their company.  Athos remains wary of him, however, and their relationship is a bit cooler without the bonding that took place in episode three._

_Athos, though still Tréville’s second, tries to stay in the background and doesn’t accompany him to the palace as often as in canon. He always wears the scarf, even when duelling someone like the Duke of Savoy, and when asked, says that it provides protection to an old, sensitive wound._

_D’Artagnan is unaware of Athos’ secret, though he suspects the Inseparables of keeping something from him._

_Everything is about to change._

 

* * *

_“The ghosts swarm._

_They speak as one person._

_Each loves you._

_Each has left something undone…”_  

-       Unbidden, Rae Armantrout

* * *

 

  **Summer, 1630**

This feels like a familiar dance, an unfolding of the past, ghosts rising from their grave to howl: a husband, distressed over the disappearance of his wife and daughter, shouting above the summer rain in a voice cracked by desperation and the creeping, subtle beginnings of grief. How many times has he witnessed this? Three this week but dozens five years ago, each the same as the last—wives and husbands and fathers and mothers and the missing a hole ripped in their world.

It was summer then, too, the days long and heavy, and the symmetry of it is disturbing—a chill down his spine. It’s easier to focus on the changes: Aramis, present and alive, soothing the man with a comforting hand on his arm; Athos, drenched in the middle of the street, looking for clues long washed away; and d’Artagnan, their newest addition, stepping from inside the house with a cup of wine to press into the man’s hands with a sympathetic smile.

He’s not alone this time. That, at least, will make this easier—for his heart if not the case itself.

Leaving the man to d’Artagnan and Aramis, he steps out into the rain and stops near Athos.

“Anythin’?”

Athos shakes his head. Water drips from his hat onto the collar of his cloak. “You know there isn’t.”

There never has been. Two weeks of this and they have _nothing_ —such a painfully familiar dance.

Athos straightens, glancing back at the house. “Has he been of any use?”

Porthos suppresses a sigh—long used to Athos’ lack of empathy for the broken and the grief-stricken. Porthos’ attempts to instil some of it back in him so far have not succeeded, but he has also accepted that against Athos’ past there are some battles he and Aramis will never win.

“Not really. They were on their way back from the market. Never arrived. That was yesterday. ‘E went lookin’ but no one saw anythin.’”

Same as all the others.

Athos’ lips thin—the only sign of his frustration. “Very well. We shouldn’t linger, then.”

 _Waste any more time,_ he means, but he has at least developed enough tact not to say it out loud.

Porthos does sigh this time, staring at the cracks beneath Athos’ usual mask of calm. They’ve been widening ever since this started and he’s waiting for the shattering and the spiral. It will be a little time yet—Athos is strong, good at holding himself together—and he and Aramis will have to fight their way in, but after five years, they will be ready.

Aramis and d’Artagnan bid the man good day and join them in the street, wearing almost identical expressions of sorrow and frustration.

“Well?” Athos asks.

Aramis shakes his head. “Just the usual story. They went to the market, never came back, and no one has seen anything. They didn’t have a reason to leave, that he knows of, and nothing like this has ever happened before.”

Athos’ arches an eyebrow. “That’s all he could give us?”

d’Artagnan bristles and Porthos braces himself, trading a glance with Aramis. _Here we go._

“Can you blame him? His wife and child are missing. He’s distraught.”

Athos’ gaze snaps to d’Artagnan, cold as steel. “His emotions are preventing him from remembering things clearly, details that could help us find them. If he would calm down, we might be able to glean useful information instead of wasting our time with false promises and attempts at comfort.”

D’Artagnan takes a step forward, crackling with fury at perceived injustice. “You don’t need to be so cruel. Not everyone is like you!”

Steel freezes to ice. Aramis winces and Porthos fights the urge to bang his head against something. Athos draws himself up and Porthos can practically see the walls climbing, gates slamming shut, cracks buried.  Perfect. “No, perhaps not, but you would do well to start thinking like a soldier and stop making judgments on things you do not understand.”

And with that he turns and stalks away, shoulders bent against the downpour. Aramis takes a step forward, open worry on his face, but Porthos stops him with a hand on his shoulder. As much as he aches to help, Athos won’t let them in right now.

Aramis sighs, sharp with exasperation, and turns to d’Artagnan. The Whelp looks contrite and a bit of Porthos’ irritation eases. Athos is a minefield and they can’t expect d’Artagnan to know how to navigate it. It’s been five years and Porthos still missteps as much as he gets things right, learning by trial and error where the numerous powder kegs are buried.

“That was too much, wasn’t it?” d’Artagnan asks.

“Just a bit,” Aramis replies, holding up two fingers to emphasise his point.

“Well, there’s no use standin’ round here gettin’ soaked,” Porthos says. There’s little more they can do here and he, for one, would like a nice, warm tavern and a drink.

Aramis claps d’Artagnan on the shoulder in reassurance as they head off and Porthos can remember the garrison after they got Athos back—still shaky and brittle with how close they’d come to losing him, watching him stand trial in front of the king and praying, _praying_ that they didn’t know, didn’t _see—_ and Aramis making his case for d’Artagnan, passionate and angry in the face of Athos’ reluctance.

“We owe it to him,” Aramis had snapped, face inches from Athos’, hands fisted in the front of his doublet. “To his father.”

In the end, Aramis won and here they are, four instead of three. Porthos likes the Whelp; he’s smart, confident, and talented, if still a bit reckless and naïve—young in a way Porthos can’t remember ever being. But Athos has remained stubbornly withdrawn, almost hostile, for reasons Porthos can only guess at.

Aramis insists that they just need to give it time, but it’s been months with no sign of a change—no matter how many times d’Artagnan proves himself to be a worthy addition to their ranks. It grates on the boy, who looks up to Athos and is obviously a bit desperate for his approval, and Porthos knows it’s only a matter of time before Aramis’ patience runs out.

That’s going to be a messy explosion and Porthos just hopes it will come after they’ve solved this case. He can only handle one thing at a time and he’s going to need Aramis’ support for when Athos finally splinters apart. Perhaps because of their shared near-death experience Athos finds it easier to show Aramis all the dirt and blood lurking in the darkest shadows of his soul than he does Porthos.

Porthos doesn’t begrudge him that. It’s a balance that’s managed to work well: Athos shatters, Aramis listens to the outpouring, relays necessary information to Porthos, and then he and Porthos pick up the pieces together.

He’s just not sure what’s going to happen now that d’Artagnan has become a permanent fixture. They’ll have to deal with that as it comes.

For now, he takes a seat in the corner of one of their normal haunts, shrugging off his wet cloak and leaving Aramis to fetch their drinks. D’Artagnan sits across from him, raking his sopping hair out of his eyes.

Porthos waits for the questions to break their way through d’Artagnan’s reserve. It doesn’t take long. “Does Athos hate me?”

Right to the bones, then.

“No,” Porthos says, because he’s never known Athos to hate anyone but himself—not even the woman who orchestrated his demise or the man who broke him.

D’Artagnan looks sceptical. “It really seems like he does.”

“’E’s like that with everyone.”

“Not with you. Or Aramis. Or most of the other musketeers.”

Porthos sighs. “It’s complicated.”

That’s an inadequate summary of Athos, but anything else would be exposing too much that isn’t his to reveal. D’Artagnan looks ready to question further, but Aramis returns with the drinks and the moment is gone. Good. Porthos would much prefer to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

Aramis picks up the slight tension in his shoulders with a flick of his eyes and takes control of the conversation. “This is eight people in the past two weeks, almost all of them women and children.”

“’E’s gotten bolder.” Last time it had begun with criminals, then vagrants, then finally women and children and stayed at a slow, infuriating trickle – so that they didn’t see the pattern until far too many lives were already gone. He won’t make that mistake again.

“We’re sure it’s him, then?” Aramis asks and it’s easy to forget, sometimes, that he wasn’t there for the first round.

“Fits ‘is style.”

“Why now, though?”

Porthos shrugs. “Maybe ‘e thought it’d been long enough. People’ve forgotten.”

D’Artagnan glances and forth between them with open curiosity.  “You know who’s behind this?”

Aramis sighs, weary. “We suspect.”

D’Artagnan crosses his arms and leans back in his seat with an expectant expression. Porthos hides an amused smile in his cup. Aramis glares at him when it’s clear that he’s been left with the job of explaining.

“There was a similar case five years ago. The man behind it was known as Le Renard, a powerful figure in the Parisian underworld.”

D’Artagnan frowns. “What happened to the people he took?”

Porthos can feel his fingers tightening on the glass, all traces of humour gone. He didn’t accompany Tréville on the raid of Le Renard’s main place of operations but he’ll always be able to picture it perfectly from the glimpses he’s seen in Athos’ nightmares and Tréville’s description of Athos’ rescue.

Hell on earth is what it sounded like.

“Le Renard considered himself an entrepreneur,” Porthos says, remembering Athos using the description once, “for the perverse.”

Confusion creases d’Artagnan’s brow and right, fresh from the farms of Gascony, he probably has had little time to see the depravities lurking in Paris’ underbelly.

“He ran establishments for those with unusual desires,” Aramis elaborates. He takes a long swig of his drink and his eyes are haunted. “Desires … not normally accepted in respected society.”

Finally, the Whelp’s face twists in horrified understanding. “ _Children?”_ He says, voice breaking, and Porthos nearly cringes.

Athos has not mentioned the children he killed in the past five years, but Porthos knows they are the most vengeful of his ghosts and the ones that visit most often in his nightmares. He’s witnessed their effect often enough over the years—Athos’ screams and Latin prayers asking forgiveness from a God he no longer believes in.

“Yes,” Aramis whispers, staring into his wine. His knuckles are bleached white around the cup. “Among other things.”

There is a long silence full of a grief no words could possible fill.

“What happened?” D’Artagnan asks, still hushed with reverence for the dead. “Last time?”

“Le Renard got away,” Porthos replies, bitter.  “A number of ‘is men were executed and ‘is … _enterprises_ were put to a stop, but we never caught ‘im.”

D’Artagnan pauses, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Did … Athos have anything to do with the case?”

Aramis throws him a surprised glance, but Porthos has long noticed how observant the Whelp is, especially, for reasons he’s not sure of, where Athos is involved. It makes him wonder how long it will take d’Artagnan to pick his way through Athos’ masks.

“What makes you say that?” Aramis asks, deceptively casual.

D’Artagnan shrugs. “He’s seemed worse than usual in the past two weeks. And since I haven’t done anything out of the ordinary I thought it must be the disappearances affecting him.”

Aramis rubs his forehead. “There is a connection but it isn’t mine to share.”

“Somehow,” d’Artagnan says flatly, “I knew you were going to say that.”

Aramis gives him a wan smile and the matter dies. For the moment. They turn, instead, back to the case itself, and several hours are spent tossing theories and plans back and forth. By the time the sun has set, Porthos is starting to feel like they’re going in circles and calls an end to the discussion.

“Enough for tonight. Go home, kid. Get some rest.”

D’Artagnan frowns, but thankfully obeys without any protest or questions about what they plan to do. He doesn’t need to know that they’re off to pull Athos out of his drink and the clutches of the past.

Not yet.

Once the door closes behind d’Artagnan, Aramis turns to him and says, purposefully cheerful, “So, the Swan first?”

Porthos sighs and dons his hat as he stands. It’s going to be a long night.

~  ~ ~  ~  ~

They find him at the fifth tavern they try and by then they’re both soaked to the bone, exhausted, and irritated. Normally, they manage to locate him by tavern three but tonight seems to be unlucky. Perhaps in keeping with this whole damned case.

Or Athos is trying harder than usual to shake them. Porthos isn’t sure which one is more disconcerting.

He’s at a table in the shadows, cloak still around his shoulders, and empty bottles lined up neatly at his elbow. His hand is steady as he takes a long swig of wine and when he looks up at them, his eyes are cool and composed. Even this far into his cups, he remains one of the most stupidly dignified men Porthos has ever met.

It’s bloody infuriating.

Aramis sits down first, because his easy charm is better at tearing down Athos’ alcohol and trauma-induced walls than Porthos’ unwavering honesty.

“Five bottles, _mon ami_? You’re quite enthusiatic tonight.”

Athos doesn’t reply, just pours himself another drink—and heaven forbid he make this easy on them. Porthos both aches for him and longs to knock some sense into him. Drinking only ever makes the ghosts more vicious yet Athos refuses to acknowledge that—the stubborn fool, thinking he’ll be able to drink enough to drown them out.

“And this tavern is new,” Aramis continues, undettered, and glances around at the dank surroundings. “Charming place. I can see why you like it.”

Three tables to the left, a man pulls a knife on another over a game of cards, and four tables to the left, another man has pulled one of the serving girls into his lap, ignoring her protests. A rotten smell hangs in the air and Porthos can feel his skin crawl with each passing minute spent in this place.

It reminds him far too much of other places, best left forgotten.

At their table, Athos still hasn’t responded and Aramis’ exasperation is starting to slip through the sympathetic mask. So it’s going to be like that tonight. Fine.

With a sharp sigh, Porthos reaches past Aramis and grabs a fistful of Athos’ doublet. “C’mon, we’re leavin’.”

“ _Let go of me_ ,” Athos snarls as Porthos hauls him to his feet and at least it’s a response, even if Porthos is about to get a fist to the face. He’s learn to embrace small victories.

He dodges the first predictable swing and pins Athos’ arm behind his back. Athos curses at him, thrashing, and right. It’s going to be like that tonight.

“Aramis,” he calls, holding onto his calm. 

Aramis materialises at his shoulder and removes Athos’ sword, pistol, and dagger from his belt, ignoring Athos’ searing glare at the intrustion.

“Let’s go.” Porthos starts for the door, half-dragging, half-pushing Athos along. None of the other patrons spare them a second glance as they crash through the door out into the rainy summer night.

The road is slick with mud and Porthos struggles to maintain his balance as Athos suddenly throws his weight forward, breaking Porthos’ grip on his arm. He ducks another swing and backs up a large step. Thankfully, Athos doesn’t give chase.

“Athos. Calm down.”

Aramis glances at him ( _let me handle this)_ and steps forward. “It’s us, _mon ami._ We mean no harm.”

Athos blinks at them. He looks small in the downpour—confused and angry and teetering on the thin edge between past and present. The ghosts are out in force tonight, bolstered by too much wine.

Aramis takes another step. “It’s Aramis. You know us, Athos.”

Athos tenses. Porthos holds his breath. Another step. “We’re in Paris. Remember, _mon ami?_ Look at your shoulder.” He gestures to the paldron still fixed to Athos’ doublet. “Whatever you are remembering is over.”

Athos’ gaze slides to the paldron—the same mark he bears on his neck and here in the dark and the rain and the past, the contrast between them is sharp. A beat. A breath. A slow blink. And then Athos is looking back up at them with cautious recognition.

“…Aramis?”

Porthos watches relief wash the tension from Aramis’ face. “Yes, _mon ami._ Yes. It’s me. And Porthos.”

It should be safe now. Porthos joins Aramis, keeping his hands in full view and his shoulders hunched just enough to diminish his bulk. At times like this, he’s learned that his size and stature remind Athos’ of painful things and he quickly grew tired of his normally unshakeable friend flinching at his presence.

Fortunately, he’s always been good at adapting and now, Athos’ doesn’t back away.

Small victories.

Athos looks around, then, still a bit off-kilter, a bit too slow. But he’s smart, their Athos, and he’s already putting the missing pieces together and repairing his armour. In another few moments, this vulnerable, uncertain man will be gone—replaced by a musketeer who can hold his own in a fight after downing four bottles of wine and never once appear to lose his wits.

It comes with a straightening of Athos’ spine and a defiant lift of his chin and steel coating his blue eyes. “Well, I thank you both for your concern, but I am fine.” He holds out his hand to Aramis for his weapons.

Another look _(how bad do you think?) (not tonight)_ and Aramis shakes his head. “No. Let’s get you home, _mon ami.”_

Athos throws his shoulders back and Porthos knew this coming. “No,” he says, cutting off the acerbic protests Athos is about to unleash on them. “Stop bein’ such a stubborn git, Athos.  We’re gonna help ya whether you like it or not. So don’t make this harder on all of us.”

Athos’ eyes narrow and Porthos braces for another explosion. Tonight was bad and Athos is shattering and he always fights harder and more viciously when he’s close to breaking. But then Athos’ slumps in resigned surrender, looking suddenly too old and too frail and Porthos _aches._

 Still. Always. Even after five years.

The ache will remain, he’s decided, because there are some parts of Athos that will never fully heal and it’s easy to cut his heart on their jagged edges.

 For now, though, he lets none of it through as he slides an arm around Athos’ back to keep him upright. “Let’s go, you bloody fool.”

Aramis trails behind them, ready, as always, to provide additional assistance if needed. Porthos smiles at him— _I’m glad I’m not doing this alone._

Aramis inclines his head and together, the three of them navigate the familiar, shuffling path home as the rain continues its assault. Tomorrow, Porthos hopes, will be better. 

But the dread amassing in the pit of his stomach whispers ominously that he’s wrong. This is just the beginning.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghosts, dead-ends, and gambling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE. So sorry it's been an age. Remember when I said that things looked like they were evening out? Yeah, that turned out to be a lie. The rest of 2015 was hellish and so was the beginning of 2016, leaving no time to write and not much creative energy, but here I am. If anyone is still out there, thank you very much for your patience and all your lovely comments on the first chapter. 
> 
> Hopefully the next update will be quicker than, uh, nine months, but I'm terrified to promise anything. Please enjoy and a thousand apologies again. 
> 
> \- C x

Sunlight streams in through the windows, blinding him, and he shifts in the chair with a faint groan. He can feel eyes on him, boring into his skin, and when his own adjust to the light, he finds Athos awake in the bed. Aramis is pressed against his side—face tucked into the curve of Athos’ neck—and Porthos smiles at the sight.

“Aw, lookit you two. Adorable.”

Athos predictably rolls his eyes, but also doesn’t remove his arm from where it’s wrapped around Aramis’ shoulders. “You didn’t have to stay.”

Porthos frowns at him, reproving. Last night was full of screams, pleas, and broken glass, but he doubts Athos remembers fully. The memory of nights like those are his and Aramis’ to bear—it’s the least they can do, often the _only_ thing they can do, and it never feels like enough.

“We did,” he says, firm.

Athos sighs, looking as exhausted as Porthos feels. When he smiles at Porthos it’s bitter. “That bad?”

Porthos has learned not to lie to him. “Worse.”

Athos flinches and runs his free hand across his face. He’s pale, eyes bloodshot and hair a mess, and Porthos wishes he could take the tremble from Athos’ fingers and wipe away the dark circles bruised into his skin. “Sorry,” Athos mutters.

“Don’t,” Aramis mumbles into his neck and sits up. “We’ve been over this, _mon ami.”_

Athos grimaces at him. “And I remain sorry. You shouldn’t have to—”

Aramis cuts him off by putting a hand over his mouth and Porthos laughs quietly at the furious glare Athos immediately adopts.

“Enough,” Aramis demands—stern in spite of the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

His eyes are infinitely warm.

Athos slumps in surrender and Aramis drops his hand before leaning in to press a kiss against Athos’ temple, comforting and steadying all at once. “We’ll get through this,” he insists and ruffles Athos’ hair as he climbs to his feet, stretching.

Porthos smiles at him, offering a silent _thank you._ Aramis returns the smile, a swift quirk of his lips. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but that’s an impossibility when they both know worse is likely to come. Until Le Renard is dead, there won’t be any real peace, in spite of these moments they’re still managing to steal. And even then—the monster lives in Athos’ head and Porthos doesn’t know if they’ll ever be able to banish him. Not completely.

Instead of dwelling, he stands and runs a teasing hand through Aramis’ riotous hair. “You wear bird’s nest well, Aramis.”

Aramis grins, unbothered, and dips his head. “Such flattery, Porthos. It won’t get you breakfast, though.”

Athos is on his feet now, too, and staggering towards the window to retrieve his usual bucket of water—not quite as effective in the summer, but still a ritual Porthos and Aramis have never been able to shake him of.  Aramis deftly intercepts him, picking up the bucket from the sill instead, and Athos huffs in a way that says he knows they’re deliberately spoiling him, but he’s too tired to put up his normal defences against it.

“Not your whole head this morning, please,” Aramis says with a pat to Athos’ back. “We’d like some, too.”

Athos settles for splashing water on his face. He rubs his neck as he straightens and Porthos watches his fingers catch on the brand, watches his shoulders stiffen slightly, and longs to pull his hand away from the ruined flesh but keeps himself still. Athos is rebuilding and Porthos needs to let him.

Five minutes later they’re all dressed, and Athos ties his ragged scarf around his neck, sealing up the last hole in his armour.

“I suppose we’d better head to breakfast,” Aramis says, idly reaching out to redo Athos’ scarf. Athos lets him with a patience that Porthos is always grateful for. It’s one victory they’ve been allowed to keep—Athos’ ease with their affection and their presence in his life and occasionally even their coddling. “The Whelp is no doubt there already, waiting to pounce.”

Athos tenses at the mention of d’Artagnan, but only slightly—enough to ignore. “Yes,” he agrees, all dry humour. “He is a bit like an overexcited puppy, isn’t he?”

Aramis laughs, bright, and then they’re stepping out into the summer heat. Porthos can’t help but feel like they’re going to war.

 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Today, they’re interviewing the sellers at the market, hoping that one of them might have seen something. It’s a pointless task and halfway through, Athos is ready to go find a tavern and drown himself.

His damn hands won’t stop trembling—haven’t stopped in _days—_ and his throat feels raw all the time from the screams he’s keeping locked in his chest, beneath the drumbeat of his battered lungs—one name, over and over: _Renard, Renard, Renard._

He should have expected this. Ghosts never truly stay dead and Le Renard was always the most vicious one of all.  A part of him he doesn’t like to acknowledge keeps expecting to wake up in a cage in chains with dirt and blood staining his skin, discovering that these past five years in the Musketeers have been the dream.

His hands shake harder and he curls them into fists to make them stop. D’Artagnan is looking at him—too damn observant—and Athos loathes the open, _knowing_ concern in his eyes. He wants d’Artagnan away from all of this, because he looks at the boy and he sees _Thomas_ and all the too-young men he killed in the rings and d’Artagnan should never have to touch dirt and blood like that.

But d’Artagnan is stubborn, just as Thomas was, and it’s pointless to dissuade him from helping. Athos just has to be sure not to unravel in front of him. D’Artagnan is the only one close to him who _doesn’t know,_ who doesn’t see dirt and blood and death when he looks at Athos, but someone worthy of _admiration_ of all things and Athos selfishly wants to hold on to it.

It makes him a pathetic coward, but when has he ever been anything more than that?

They move on to the next stall and the woman there regards them suspiciously. Athos lets Aramis and his easy charm do the talking and within minutes she’s looking smitten instead. He trades an amused glance with Porthos and leaves Aramis to it, stepping back to survey the market. A woman and child snatched in broad daylight—he would say Renard is getting bolder but the man has always been confidently reckless.

“We’re not going to find anything, are we?” d’Artagnan is leaning against a pillar next to him—grim lines on his youthful face.

Athos sighs, both irritated and touched by the boy’s complete disregard for every single wall he tries to throw up between them.

“No,” he murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest.

D’Artagnan makes an impatient sound. “Then why are we bothering with this?”

Because they’ll go crazy otherwise, but Athos keeps that to himself. “Do you have any better ideas?”

“Aramis said you knew him,” d’Artagnan presses and Athos pretends he can’t feel the blood freezing briefly in his veins. On his neck, the brand burns beneath his scarf—searing, vicious phantom pain. “Surely you must have some ideas about how to stop him?”

 _Calm down,_ he tells himself, frustrated, because d’Artagnan thinks he worked the case back then, thinks he was a Musketeer, and not even Aramis and Porthos are aware of all the ways Le Renard _knew_ him.

“No,” he says, sharper than he meant to—the way he always ends up sounding around d’Artagnan. “I wasn’t the one who stopped him, last time. Tréville got lucky.”

Another impatient sound. Porthos and Aramis have moved on to the next stall. Only three left to go and still no leads.

“Surely there must be more we can do than this,” d’Artagnan sweeps an angry hand at the market.

Athos bites back a frustrated sigh. _I don’t know,_ he wants to say, because Le Renard is more than a man—he lives in Athos’ head and Athos has _never_ been able to stop him. Not before and not now. He doesn’t even know where to start, can’t see past the roar in his ribcage and the nightmares that drive his mouth to a bottle and his hands to a knife.

He tugs his sleeves lower self-consciously, hating the summer heat that prevents him from wearing gloves. “Any ideas, then?” He asks d’Artagnan.

“Do you think he’s operating in Paris somewhere?” d’Artagnan asks.

“We checked,” Athos replies, “every dark corner we could think of. Nothing. He’s smart. He won’t use the same hideouts twice.”

There’s always Le Harve. Last time Le Renard ambushed convoys near the port town, but it’s over a hundred miles between Le Harve and Paris and Renard could be anywhere. A hundred miles is an impossibility without any leads.

Or, without bait.

He hasn’t told Porthos or Aramis of the plan brewing in the back of his mind—mostly because he knows how they’d react—vehement denial—and he’s still uncertain if he’ll have the courage to go through with it. It may be their only option, though.

“We can’t just give up,” d’Artagnan insists and Athos admires the boy’s passion and fire. It’s something he doesn’t think he’s ever possessed himself, but Thomas had in spades.

“We haven’t give up.” He closes his eyes against the hot glare of the sun and aches down to his brittle bones. The brand still burns. “Some things just take time.”

“We don’t _have_ time! Innocent people are dying.”

 _If only,_ Athos thinks darkly, _it were that simple._ He can feel the dirt, thick beneath his skin, and the layers and layers of blood dripping into the ground beneath his feet. “He sells them,” he forces himself to say, “or uses them. They’re not dying yet.”

D’Artagnan looks at him, caught between horror and disgust and _good,_ maybe this way the boy will finally stop trying to befriend a monster and get on with his life. Athos has killed too many young men like him, even his own brother.

“Dead end,” Aramis says before d’Artagnan can get out whatever scathing reply he was obviously formulating. He claps Athos on the shoulder as he approaches, fingers digging in—a sharp, much needed anchor.

“One of ‘em saw men but they were wearin’ masks,” Porthos adds, joining them. They both look tired and Athos tries not to choke on familiar guilt at keeping them up all night.

D’Artagnan kicks the pillar in open frustration and Athos carefully avoids his angry, heartbroken gaze.

“We need to widen the search area,” Aramis suggests, removing his hat to wipe sweat from his brow.

“To a hundred and twenty miles between here and Le Harve?” Athos asks, biting.

Aramis shrugs—a silent _what else are we going to do?_ that Athos desperately wishes he could answer.

“Or we could start in Le Harve,” Porthos suggests. “Smaller city and ‘e’s operated there before, too. Might dig up somethin.’”

“Tréville sent men to Le Harve yesterday,” Aramis points out.

“Well they could always use more eyes and ears, right?” d’Artagnan says, hopeful, and Athos can see the desire to be useful, the determination.

Le Renard isn’t in Le Harve, he’s almost certain but he’s not cruel enough to crush that spark of optimism in d’Artagnan’s eyes. It’ll die soon enough on it’s own and if only Athos could protect him from that.

Well ... maybe he can.

He stays silent as Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan decide to speak to Tréville about traveling to Le Harve in the morning. His hands are trembling so badly he can practically feel his bones rattling and he longs for a cloak to hide them in.

The sun is setting and he dregs up a smile when Aramis proposes dinner at a nearby tavern. “Go on ahead, I’ll join shortly.”

Porthos and Aramis glance at him sharply—matching looks of concern on their faces, but he knows they won’t fuss too badly in front of d’Artagnan. They’ve all reached an unspoken agreement not to let the boy see how shattered Athos is beneath his rusting armour. Except d’Artagnan is wearing almost the same concerned expression and Athos is perpetually terrified of how much he sees.

He parts ways with the other three out in the street and goes home. There, he strips himself of his uniform, shrugging on a simple brown doublet in its place. He leaves his pistol and sword but not his _main gaunche_ or the dagger he slips into his boot.

He purposefully doesn’t cover his trembling hands.

 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

The tavern is one dark corner they haven’t checked yet and it takes almost all of Athos’ willpower to go inside. He has no idea if this will work, if Le Renard still cares enough to come looking for him, but this has gone on long enough and his guilt has finally overcome his cowardice.

Once he’s seated, he unwinds his scarf from his neck and adjusts the collar of his shirt so that the brand is exposed. Then, he drinks, trying to ignore the various eyes on him—both malicious and leering. He feels sick, somewhere deep in his gut, and the dirt has climbed into his mouth, too. He can taste it on his tongue instead of the wine.

The point, though, is to look fragile, vulnerable so he lets his shoulders hunch over the table and keeps his gaze down, unguarded _._ Le Renard has eyes everywhere, his Birds, and Athos vaguely remembers hearing the name of this place during one of Renard’s more talkative nights. It’s a gamble, a shot in the dark, but it’s all they have.

He makes himself drink four cups of wine and stay in the tavern for over an hour. No one approaches him, but he was expecting that. When he leaves, he wishes his unsteadiness was an act. Outside in the cool summer air, he pauses to vomit in a nearby alley. The ghosts in his head swarm and roar and the blood drips, drips, drips.

He heaves a ragged breath, then another and another until his lungs stop aching and the wounds are sewn up with the usual ragged, messy stiches. This done, he squares his shoulders, put his mask firmly back in place, and goes to meet the others.

 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

 

“I’m fine,” he insists four hours later, because he isn’t nearly as drunk as he wants to be. D’Artagnan has gone home and once again Porthos and Aramis are hovering like anxious mother hens.

Athos would be irritated if he wasn’t so grateful, didn’t need them so much, especially tonight. Tonight he wants to cling pathetically and not let go until the shadows and dirt stop choking him—secure in the knowledge that they’ll always let him.

It’s still hard to believe, sometimes, and he cannot fathom what he did to earn this love and loyalty—thinks often that’s probably the _point_ and then his tattered chest gets too full and he has to stop dwelling.

They’re both the easiest and hardest things in his life and he _loves_ them with a depth and a fierceness that terrifies him.

He pushes that away, too, and lets them take him home. Lets Aramis help him take off his scarf, doublet, and pauldron, lets Porthos gently force some water into him, and lets them both cram onto his too small bed.

“It’s going to be a bad night,” he warns them quietly when Porthos blows out the candle and the darkness settles in.

Aramis squeezes his waist, kisses his temple, and most importantly stays—they both do, even after the ghosts descend in a vicious swarm. When he’s next fully aware, the shadows have deepened and the candle is lit again. His throat is raw from screaming and Aramis has a cut on his cheek from the knife now clutched in Porthos’ hand.

God, Athos _hates_ nights like this. “Sorry,” he mutters, instinctive, and tries to get his breathing back under control.

“It’s just a scratch,” Aramis replies, all bright humour to hide his worry—like Athos can’t see right through him. “Should’ve realised you had something under your pillow.”

Usually he turns over all his weapons when it gets this bad, but he couldn’t bear to after the tavern and the _eyes._ “Sorry,” he says again with a frustrated grimace.

Porthos squeezes his shoulder—the bloody knife thankfully gone. “Just glad ta ‘ave you back.”

“How long…?” He asks because he’s a stupid glutton for punishment and he likes that they never lie to him.

Aramis rubs the back of his neck—a soothing touch he relaxes into without thought. The bed creaks as Porthos sits back down on his other side. “Bout three hours,” he says. “Y’wouldn’t come outta it.”

He forces himself to stop apologising and sighs sharply instead. He feels exhausted and ragged, like he’s about to come apart, and it isn’t a surprise when Aramis says, gentle, “If you need to stay off the case…”

“No,” he replies immediately and Aramis frowns at him, but also doesn’t look surprised. On his other side, Porthos sighs and squeezes his shoulder.

“Then I’m goin’ back to bed.” He squeezes his bulk against the wall in a way that would be funny under different circumstances. Athos doesn’t bother trying to convince to return to his own apartment.

Aramis smiles at Porthos with open, unguarded affection, then turns back to Athos. “Think you can sleep?”

Athos thinks about lying and shakes his head. Aramis accepts this without comment, just carefully extracts himself from the bed and holds out a hand. When Athos takes it, Aramis’ skin is warm and comforting against his own.

 

**~  ~  ~  ~  ~**

 

They walk and at this hour, the streets are quiet. The stars are bright overhead—a clear summer sky—and with each step Athos feels a little less like he’s about to suffocate. Next to him, Aramis hums softly under his breath.

He’s lost count of how many times they’ve done this, how many nights have been lost to wandering empty streets, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being grateful. “Thank you,” he says, breaking ten minutes of easy silence.

Aramis gives him the same affectionate, loving smile as he did Porthos earlier. “Buy me a nice breakfast and we’re even.” Like always.

 _I love you,_ Athos thinks desperately, _far too much._

The sun is coming up, slowly painting the sky gold, when they stop at a church not far from Athos’ apartment, as is also customary. Athos has no faith left, but it is easy to sit in one of the hard pews and let Aramis indulge his.

He suspects Aramis prays enough for all three of them, anyway.

He likes listening to the soft cadence of Latin and occasionally Spanish that spills from Aramis’ lips as he sits next to Athos or kneels in front of the altar. 

Back outside half an hour later, Aramis hugs him, fierce and gentle—face buried in Athos’ neck and arms like a pillar holding him up. Aramis murmurs against his skin, “just promise you’ll stay with us.”

Athos wishes he could.

“I’ll try,” is all he can manage, but it’s somehow always been enough for Aramis, who pulls away with a tired smile.

Athos buys him breakfast at the market, as promised, and picks up some for Porthos, as well. Porthos hugs him, too, right after he crosses the threshold into the apartment and Athos wonders a little hysterically if they can see how badly he’s cracking, if they can feel him slipping through their fingers in the same way he can feel himself losing more and more pieces to the ghosts with each passing night.

If so, there’s nothing any of them can do about it. The dead have always been far more powerful than the living. Le Renard taught him that. Thomas taught him that. _She_ taught him that.

The past is never dead and in the end, the ghosts always win.

 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

 

Three bloody days and _nothing._ Tréville insisted they remain in Paris awhile longer and d’Artagnan looked ready to explode. Two more people have gone missing since then and he’s wound up tighter than a spring now, unaccustomed to such bitter failure. Athos watches him helplessly from the side lines, wishing he could keep the boy in a world where musketeers don’t lose to monsters. 

Aramis and Porthos aren’t breaking as badly, yet, but they’re exhausted from nights spent battling Athos’ demons with him and he can’t get them to leave him on his own for even one night—the stubborn fools.

It’s frustrating and taxing and if his gamble with the tavern didn’t work, he’s out of options. The only thing left to do will be to search the one hundred and twenty miles between here and Le Harve and hope they somehow get lucky.

It’s late afternoon and the heat is oppressive. Tréville ordered them all to take a break, pick back up in the evening, and Athos took the opportunity to force Aramis and Porthos back to their own beds. Now, he climbs the rickety steps to his own apartment and wonders if he’ll manage any sleep.  Doubtful. He’s almost forgotten what it feels like in the past few weeks.

He freezes when he reaches the front door, eyes widening as all the air suddenly evaporates in his lungs and an invisible hand closes around his throat.

Pinned to his door by a familiar dagger is a familiar locket—a jagged crack in his carefully constructed world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghosts are alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hi. Yeah, it's been an age, hasn't it? I'm sorry for that. 2016 got away from me a bit and involved, on top of being a garbage year, moving to another country again. 
> 
> Yay. 
> 
> But things are settling and I finally have an outline so I'm hopeful. If anyone is left out there, thank you so much for your incredible patience. I hope this update is at least somewhat worth the ridiculous wait. 
> 
> Also a WARNING going forward. As was the case with the previous story in this series, this is going to address some heavy themes starting now, including implications, and probably full on discussion at some point, of a past non-consensual relationship between Athos and Renard. Nothing is going to happen between them in the present, but the weight of all that transpired is definitely going to make itself known. So please proceed with caution. I'll be sure to include further warnings for each chapter as I go. 
> 
> Feedback, as always, are greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Enjoy. <3
> 
> \- C x

The locket is cold in his hands as he turns it over, letting the candlelight reflect off the scratched metal. He hasn’t seen it in years—since Le Renard took it from him on his first night under the man’s ownership. The dagger gleams from the table and that he remembers, too.

He used it to slit his wrists six years ago.

Tucked inside the locket was a small piece of parchment with a location and a time scribbled in a familiar hand.

His gamble paid off after all. He’s still not entirely sure how to feel about that beyond sick and terrified. He wants to crawl into the nearest bottle and never, ever come back out again, but he _can’t._ He tells himself that he is _Athos,_ a musketeer, who has people to protect, people he _loves._

He is not the frightened, broken nobleman he was when Le Renard first stole him. He is _Athos_ and he can fight, he can be brave, he has to do this. If not for a duty to the people of France then for Aramis and Porthos and _d’Artagnan_ , who never needs to know darkness like this.

It’s their names and his love for them burning hot in his chest that gets him to his feet and out the door. He leaves his uniform behind again, not wanting it to get tainted, but takes his sword and pistol and every other weapon he owns.

He is _Athos_ and he will not go down without a fight—not this time.

 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

 

The locket is heavy around his neck as he steps into the clearing and surveys the enemy camp. It’s smaller than he expected—only a few tents—and around him the forest practically glows in the harsh moonlight. Without the instructions provided in the note, he never would have found it.

His hands shake. He wonders if they’ll ever stop.

Footsteps crunch against the dirt and when Athos looks up there he is, almost exactly as he was five years ago. The same sharp, calculating gaze, the same handsome face, the same charming, poisonous smile. He’s limping, though, and Athos latches onto that, needing a reminder that he’s still a man—as fragile and killable as any other.

“Darling,” Le Renard says brightly, affectionate, and the word grates like nails against Athos’ skin. “I knew you’d come.”

Athos briefly fantasizes about putting a bullet between Renard’s eyes and being done with it. If only it were that simple—if only the terror in his bones and the tangle of emotions in his chest would let him. As it is, he forces his shoulders back and his chin up. The man who once cowered before Renard is dead and if that is all he has to cling to, then it will have to be enough.

“I got your note,” he says and is inwardly impressed by how steady his voice is. “Still have your flair for the dramatic, I see.”

Renard grins, pleased. “Of course. What is life without a little flair, mm?”

“What do you want?” Athos snaps.

Renard arches an eyebrow. “I could ask the same of you. Or was I mistaken about the message you left for my Birds?”

“I want to arrest you,” Athos says grimly. “And then I want to watch you choke at the end of a rope.”

Renard slaps a hand over his breast, a faux-wounded expression on his face. “Ouch. After all we’ve been through together?” He shakes his head. “Though I must say I’m not surprised. I made you strong, after all. And yet, here you are. Alone. Where are your fellow musketeers? The chains?”

“You don’t know I’m alone.”

“You are,” Renard fires back—a knowing look in his eyes that Athos _hates._ “You forget, darling, I _know_ you. And you may want to see me hang, but you won’t arrest me.”

Athos takes a step forward, fists clenched. “What do you _want?”_

“Always so impatient,” Renard chides. “Could it be I just wanted to see my creation again?”

“I am _not_ your creation.”

He can almost see the blood in Renard’s smile. “Oh but you _are_ and it’s what you will always hate most about yourself, won’t you? The fact that I killed the pathetic Comte de la Fere and from his ashes I forged _you._ ”

Athos wants to deny it, wants to scream and rage against it, but it’s a truth he’s never been able to escape. Renard continues and Athos is thankful he’s been allowed his silence. “But you’re right. That’s not why I asked you here.” He claps his hands together. “I need your help.”

A sharp bark of hysterical laughter bursts from Athos’ mouth before he can stop it. “You need my help?” Another step forward and he clings to the anger, lets it give him courage. “In what world would I _ever_ help you?”

“Don’t worry, I’m a businessman, darling. I _have_ brought incentive.” He waves a hand and Athos’ breath catches when two men emerge from the shadows, holding d’Artagnan between them. “I’m afraid you weren’t quite as alone as you thought. This one was following you. Like a lost puppy. Rather adorable, really.”

D’Artagnan has blood on his face and fire in his eyes, ready to fight still, but all Athos can hear in his head and heart is a roar of denial. D’Artagnan is supposed to be safe back in Paris—away from this darkness, from this dirt and this _blood—_ and more importantly, he _can’t_ know. Not about Le Renard, not about everything Athos was and still is beneath his masks and armour and crumbling walls.

Because Aramis and Porthos understand blood and dirt and ghosts, but d’Artagnan does not and he will never look at Athos with respect again.

“See?” Renard is continuing. “Incentive. You help me or I kill him. Or sell him. I think, personally, I could make a fortune. If he’s not good in the rings, he’ll work in other areas, too. He’s got your … _versatility.”_

Athos draws his pistol without thought, rage still giving him courage, but one of the men has a dagger to d’Artagnan’s throat before he can fire, pressing in hard enough to draw blood. Renard cocks a condescending eyebrow at him. “Ah, ah. Should have done that earlier, love. Too late now, I’m afraid.”

Athos lowers the gun in defeat. His own life might not be worth much but he won’t risk d’Artagnan’s, and Renard knows it.

Love is such a dangerous thing.

“What do you want?” He repeats for the third time.

Renard crosses the remaining distance between them and then his gloved his hand is cupping Athos’ cheek while Athos tries rather desperately not to be sick or look at d’Artagnan. Renard’s gaze is knowing, as always, and when he smiles it’s deceptively gentle. “Relax, darling. It’s your fighting skills I want.”

A considering glance at d’Artagnan. “And his.”

He pats Athos’ cheek and mercifully steps back. D’Artagnan growls, then, low and furious and struggles in his captors’ grip. The only result is the knife pressing in harder, more blood trickling down d’Artagnan’s neck. Athos shoots him a warning glare and Renard smiles again, knowing.

Always so goddamn _knowing._

“You see, one of my lieutenants has gotten a bit _ambitious._ All these poor missing women and children are his doing and I don’t appreciate his efforts to take over my business.” Renard gestures to his bad leg. “Unfortunately, he took most of my men with him during his little coup. I need more swords and your resources as a musketeer. The coward has gone to ground and he’s proving rather _difficult_ to find. It’s all very irritating, I’m sure you can understand.”

Athos tells himself to keep breathing and _not_ look at d’Artagnan. “Of course.” His voice stays dry, even, and it’s maybe one of his greater victories. “Though considering your status as one of the most wanted men in France, I doubt the musketeers would be eager to offer support.”

“They let you into their ranks,” Renard points out and ah, there it is. _Don’t_ look at d’Artagnan. He lifts his chin and sees the exact moment Renard understands, cringes at the way his dark eyes light up and his grin turns sharp as steel. “Oh, I _see._ How very _clever_ of you, darling. I’m impressed.”

Athos grits his teeth, curls his fingers into a fist, and _don’t look at d’Artagnan._ It’s hard, when he can feel the weight of the boy’s gaze on the side of his face. At least he hasn’t said anything rash yet.

“But I don’t need the musketeers, love. Just you,” Renard continues. “And your friends. I’m sure _they’ll_ help you. They do seem rather fond.”

d’Artagnan chooses that moment to struggle. “You bastard. If you think—”

The pair holding him tighten their grip and the knife pressing in deeper cuts off any further words. Athos forces himself to exhale and relax the sudden tension in his shoulders.

“Easy, puppy,” Renard chides, amused. When he turns back to Athos, his gaze hardens. “I understand your qualms, darling, but we want the same thing. This is just business.”

“Everything with you is just business,” Athos snaps.

Something unreadable crosses Renard’s face—gone before Athos can decipher it. “Not everything.” A pause weighs heavy in the air. “But this is. Don’t let your sentiment get in the way of your practicality, darling. You won’t find him without me and I can’t defeat him without you. This is just a temporary, necessary alliance.”

“After which I _will_ see you hang,” Athos says, pretending that it’s a certainty, that he doesn’t _hate_ the fact that he’s already agreeing to this, doesn’t hate the fact that, like always, Renard is right.

Renard grins again, pleased, that sparkle of amusement still in his eyes. “After this is over, I promise you the opportunity to try, love. For now, it’s late and you have some explaining to do, don’t you?” A pointed glance at d’Artagnan that Athos studiously doesn’t follow. “I’ll let my men show you to your tent.”

He turns to go, then pauses. Says over his shoulder, “I would mention that there will be guards posted throughout the night, but we both know you won’t try to escape. Good night, darling.”

With that, the shadows swallow him and one of the others steps forward to grab Athos’ arm. Athos barely manages to suppress a violent flinch as he’s pushed forward. Thankfully, they don’t try to manhandle him any further, though he’s intensely aware of them dragging a too-silent d’Artagnan behind him.

The tent is predictably in the middle of the small camp. Inside, the two men strip d’Artagnan of all his weapons. They take Athos’ pistol and sword but leave his _main gauche_ and he smiles bitterly at the obvious message.

They both know he isn’t going to escape.

The silence Renard’s men leave in their wake is deafening. Athos takes a measured breath, then another, until he is strong enough to face d’Artagnan and ask, “are you all right?”

D’Artagnan is wiping blood from his neck with the collar of his shirt and his expressive eyes radiate a mixture of wariness and anger that cuts Athos deep. “Yes,” he says, tone carefully measured. “A bit confused, though. You want to fill me in?”

And Athos will have to, eventually, but what comes out instead of an explanation is, “You should not have followed me.”

D’Artagnan scoffs in disbelief. “Clearly I should have. Tell me, what was your plan, Athos? To kill him? Or were you trying to get his help from the start?”

Athos _doesn’t know_ and that’s the worst part of it. “It doesn’t matter now,” he snaps instead of confronting the tangled mess in his heart and head. “Your presence makes any plan I might have had irrelevant.”

“Really?” d’Artagnan snaps right back, gesturing angrily to the _main gauche_ still on Athos’ belt. “He left you a weapon and we’re in a small camp in the woods in the dead of night. Escape would be easy, but you’re not going to, are you?”

Athos unclenches his hands. They’re trembling again, wonderful. Still, he forces enough stability in them to unsheathe the _main gauche_ and hold it out to d’Artagnan. “You are. I’ll distract the guards. Like you said, it should be easy to slip away.”

“I’m not leaving you,” d’Artagnan insists immediately and Athos wants to hit him for his strange, misplaced loyalty. Aramis and Porthos he can almost understand, but this fiery young man with his bleeding heart and his naïve world of heroes and villains?  That will always be a mystery.

“This is not your fight.”

“Innocent people are being hurt, _killed,_ of course it is. It’s our duty to—”

“What duty?” Athos cuts in, desperate for d’Artagnan to wake up and get away while he still can—before Renard truly sinks his claws in. “You’re not even a musketeer.”

D’Artagnan flinches slightly at that blow, but Athos refuses to allow himself to regret it. It only takes the idiot whelp a moment to recover, anyway. “It’s injustice, it’s _wrong_ —wanting to stop it has nothing to do with being a musketeer and you _know_ that.”

Athos scoffs, ready to mount another assault, but d’Artagnan steps forward, eyes fierce in his bruised face. “And more than that you’re my _friend,_ Athos. I won’t leave you behind.”

“Your friend?” Athos echoes, thrown off-balance. He fought with Aramis and Porthos. Bled with them. Just about _died_ with them, _for_ them. That friendship, however little he truly deserves it, was at least somewhat earned. But d’Artagnan, who he’s pushed away at every turn... “You don’t even know me.”

And God, he _hates_ the earnest, compassionate look on d’Artagnan’s face. “Yes, I do.”

He shakes his head and looks away because it’s easier than facing this: the idea that someone like d’Artagnan, someone untainted by blood and death and dirt, could consider him a friend. “You think you do.”

And suddenly he knows where to start.

Heroes and villains.

With timorous fingers, his unwinds the scarf from his neck and pulls aside the collar of his doublet. He turns so that the brand will be visible in the dim candlelight. He hears d’Artagnan’s shocked breath, but keeps his eyes fixed on the wall of the tent. “But you don’t.”

“Athos…” d’Artagnan sounds stunned, but not angry, and that’s not how this is supposed to go.

He throws his walls up as high as he can, buries the cracks in his armour, and tells himself this is for the best. He will lose d’Artagnan, but at least the boy will be safe. He couldn’t protect his own brother, but God help him he won’t fail so badly again.

“I’m a murderer,” he says, harsh, _vicious._ “I’ve killed dozens of people. Men, children, my own brother and wife. There’s enough blood on my hands to fill a river, an _ocean.”_ He sweeps an arm toward the camp beyond their tent and wills his voice not to break. “And not so long ago, I killed for him. For _entertainment._ I only ended up a musketeer because Tréville took pity and I was too much of a coward to die like I should have.”

There is one more detail he can offer—perhaps the worst one of all, the one that his shame will not allow him to even tell Porthos, though Aramis has long figured it out. This would drive d’Artagnan away, he is certain, but the words tangle up in his throat, choking his voice.

He can’t, even now. He is too selfish, always has been. He takes a deep, rattling breath instead and holds out the _main gauche_ once more, insistent. “I am not worth defending, or dying for. Take this and go.”

D’Artagnan stares at him with wide eyes, full of shock and hurt, and Athos buries the ache in his own chest. This is for the best. This was inevitable—his armour has never been strong enough to conceal the darkness that still lives in him, settled into the cracks of his tattered heart. D’Artagnan will go, will be _safe,_ and he will face Renard alone and pray to a god he no longer believes in that he doesn’t get eaten alive.

But d’Artagnan’s eyes are hardening, determination creeping in, and the idiot shakes his head. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

Athos doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream. He takes a step closer, equal parts furious and awed. “Did you not hear anything I just said?”

“I heard,” d’Artagnan replies, infuriatingly calm in a way he rarely is. “And I don’t care.”

“You?” Athos asks, settling on stunned disbelief. “You, who just preached to me of justice and duty, do not care that I am a murderer?”

d’Artagnan shakes his head again. “You _were._ You are not anymore. You regret what happened—your guilt haunts you like a shroud. I’ve wondered what it was, this … _weight,_ ever since I met you, but it makes sense now. You joined the Musketeers as penance, didn’t you?”

Athos swallows around his suddenly dry throat, searching for a denial he knows won’t come. Damn this boy and his ability to see right through him. He’s worse than Aramis, almost.  “Penance I will never earn.”

D’Artagnan predictably opens his mouth to argue, so Athos changes tactics. “But that doesn’t matter. You need to get out of here and tell the others what’s happened. Renard wasn’t lying and they’re looking in the wrong place. We need to—”

“No,” d’Artagnan interrupts. “I heard him, too. He wants to work with the musketeers, which means we’re going to be in contact with them soon, anyway. Me escaping now would be pointless, especially because you don’t want a rescue.” He crosses his arms—hard lines etched into his youthful face. “I’m _not_ leaving you here. That man is a _monster_ and no one should have to face monsters alone.”

Athos is out of arguments—words gone in the face of d’Artagnan’s unshakeable loyalty.

 _What did I do?_ he wants to ask. _To make you believe in me this much?_  d’Artagnan isn’t blind or stupid. He has most likely read the insinuations lying beneath Renard’s statements and actions—can see the dirt and the shame and the blood—and yet here he is, as steadfast as Aramis and Porthos, and Athos _doesn’t understand._

But he knows when he is defeated.

“Fine,” Athos sighs, sheathing his _main gauche._ “You’re an idiot fool, but you win. Stay. Just…” he runs a hand through his already messy hair. “…keep your head? And don’t believe what he tells you. Even when it’s true.”

“Not a problem,” d’Artagnan says, reaching out to put a hand on Athos’ shoulder. The touch is more comforting than Athos is ready to admit. “I just imagine running him through with my sword every time he speaks. It tends to block out everything else.”

A laugh bubbles up unbidden, spilling from his lips cracked and sharp. D’Artagnan smiles, just as fierce—full of the confidence of young invincibility—and for the first time since this all began, Athos _hopes._

 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

 

It has been some time since he has felt fear like this—deep and cold and all-consuming, a vicious, physical _thing_ clogging all the air in his lungs and turning his bones to lead. Athos’ quarters are empty, his weapons missing. His uniform and a dagger Aramis has never seen before sit on the table.

“’E’s done somethin’ stupid, hasn’t ‘e?” Porthos asks from the doorway, voice grim.

Aramis nods, picking up the dagger. It’s a simple, plain design and the blade has gone dull with age. The fear swirls, hisses, and Aramis _knows_ this weapon is significant—a symbol, a warning, a message of some kind that he cannot decipher.

But it is obvious who it’s _from._

“He’s gone to meet Renard,” he says, turning the dagger over in his hands. It glints in the candlelight. Outside the open window, the waning night is bathed in eerie silver from a full moon. They’ve spent hours scouring the city—tavern after tavern after tavern—with no luck.

Aramis already knew what he would find long before Porthos forced the door to Athos’ room open—he just didn’t want to face the reality of it.

Porthos curses, slapping the doorframe in frustration. “’E’s not that stupid, right? Surely.”

“Of course he is,” Aramis murmurs. He almost wants to laugh at his own blindness. He should have seen this coming since the first disappearance, the first _whisper_ of Renard’s name. “He’s a martyr.”

Somewhere out there, Athos is currently facing the worst monster of his past with no backup. Aramis curls shaking fingers around the blade. The fear is spiralling into panic, _terror._ Somewhere out there, Athos might be dead, dying—or _worse,_ there is so much worse that could happen, and Aramis has failed—failed completely and utterly to protect him like he _swore_ that he would and is this just one more person that he loves lost to death and chaos and—

A hand lands on his shoulder, heavy and steadying, enough to jolt him out of his tangled thoughts. He blinks up at Porthos, heart still stuttering in his chest.

“Hey,” Porthos says, gaze soft with understanding. “We’re gonna find ‘im, all right? ‘E can’t ‘ave gone too far.”

Aramis takes a deep breath, wrestling the fear back into its box and bolting the lid. “Right. We just need to figure out where to start looking.”

“I’m bettin’ not in the city,” Porthos replies, taking the dagger from Aramis’s lax grip. “Maybe just outside?”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover,” Aramis says. He glances around the apartment, searching for anything else that might help them. Surely, Athos wouldn’t go off without leaving _some_ sign for them to follow...

Wait. There: a small scrap of paper on the floor, hidden in the shadows beneath the table.

Aramis bends down and scoops it up. It’s crumpled and torn, but not illegible.

“A location,” he says when he feels Porthos trying to read over his shoulder. “Meeting place, perhaps?”

“It’s a start,” Porthos agrees. “We’d better get movin.’”

“Should we get d’Artagnan?” Aramis asks as they extinguish the candle and close the door behind them.

Porthos shakes his head. “No, the further ‘e stays away from this mess, the better.”

And well, Aramis can’t argue with that. He alone bears the full burden of the ruin that Le Renard wrought on Athos—of everything that is at stake. The knowledge lends speed to his steps and he’s praying by the time he climbs onto his horse, preparing to leave the city behind.

Though perhaps begging is a more appropriate term as his prayers are little more than a repeating litany of: _Please, please let us be in time, please..._

He and Porthos have spent years trying wrestle Athos free from the insidious grip of his ghosts, and Aramis is not going to give him up now without a fight.

God help anyone who stands in his way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions, happy or otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm the worst. Please enjoy the next chapter and thank you all for your miraculous patience. <3
> 
> WARNING: vague mentions of past non-con.

Dawn.

Athos spent the night sitting cross-legged on his narrow cot with his _main gauche_ balanced across his knees, trying not to succumb to the phantom hands trailing over his skin or the panic boiling in his gut. d’Artagnan slept, at least, though it took a lot of stubborn insistence and as he sits up now, he levels Athos with a furious glare.

“You were supposed to wake me for second watch.”

Athos carefully keeps his voice free of any inflection. “I forgot.”

d’Artagnan huffs in irritation. “We need to work together. You need to let me help you.”

“I’m fine. I wouldn’t have slept anyway.” That is perhaps more vulnerable than he intended to be, judging from the slightly pitying look d’Artagnan sends him, but it’s the truth.

And he’s learning that if he doesn’t open with the truth, d’Artagnan will just dig until he uncovers it, uncaring of the armour Athos has put up. Now, though, he lets the matter drop and stands, stretching out his limbs with a low groan.

“I forgot to ask last night, did you leave anything behind for Porthos and Aramis to find?”

“No,” Athos says, standing, too. His legs are half-asleep from so long in an uncomfortable position and he leans against the cot for temporary support. “I want to keep them out of this—like I wanted to keep _you_ out of this—but if my current luck continues, they will still most likely manage to find their way here.”

They’ll know what he’s done, at any rate, as soon as they can’t find him in any of the usual taverns. They’ll break into his room, like the invasive mother hens they are, and they’ll find the dagger. Aramis, who knows more than Porthos (knows far too much), will put the pieces together and widen their search beyond the city. He takes small comfort in the fact that the camp is well hidden. Both Aramis and Porthos are expert trackers, but it could still take them days to find this place without the instructions Renard provided him or a map.  

He has time.

He just has to keep himself stitched together.

d’Artagnan nods, grinning. “They do seem to have an innate ability to locate you no matter you go. I sometimes think Aramis has put a spell of some kind on you.”

“He’s too Catholic for that,” Athos mutters and d’Artagnan laughs.

It’s helping, Athos realizes with a jolt, having d’Artagnan here—it’s helping far more than it should.

The moment fades and d’Artagnan squares his shoulders, all business again. “What’s the plan, then?”

Athos has been trying to put together a coherent one all night long, but his thoughts kept scattering like skittish ants and he’s no closer than he was at the start of all this. “Play along. Renard already has a plan of some kind in place. I’m sure someone will be along shortly to fetch us so he can tell us all about it.”

d’Artagnan looks dubious, but doesn’t argue. Thank God for small miracles.

“Fine.” He goes to the front of the tent and peers through the gap between the flaps. “Someone’s coming.”

“See?” Athos says with far more confidence than he feels. “Like I said.”

d’Artagnan backs up as the guard enters the tent and eyes them both, dubious. Athos makes sure to leave the _main gauche_ on the bed, though he suspects that Renard has already told his men they have nothing to fear from the prisoners.

“You are to join Renard for breakfast,” the guard informs them, holding open the tent flap. “Come with me.”

“Breakfast, how nice,” d’Artagnan says, voice dripping with sarcasm. The guard glares, reaching for his sword.

“We’re coming,” Athos jumps in. “No need for force.”  He pulls d’Artagnan past the guard and into the wan morning light, ignoring his protesting glower.

The sky above them is streaked with riotous colour and the camp is still quiet. In the dawn, it looks almost peaceful—only a few men milling about. Perhaps Renard _was_ telling the truth when he said his lieutenant had taken most of his company in the coup. The realization brings no comfort. Renard has never needed anyone else to make Athos’ life a living hell, has never even needed weapons. Just a touch in the right place and Athos shatters like fractured glass.

 _Before,_ he tells himself as they trail the guard toward the other side of the camp. _That was before._

Renard is waiting for him in front of his tent, seated by a smouldering fire. There are fish cooking on a spit—some bread and cheese on tin plates. Renard likes luxury, but he has never needed that, either. It is part of what makes him dangerous: this practicality, this lack of attachment to comfort.

“Good morning, darling,” Renard says, bright, and Athos wills his skin not to crawl.  “Did you and the puppy sleep well?”

“I have a name, you know,” d’Artagnan grumbles. “D’Artagnan.”

Renard waves, dismissive. “If I cared, boy, I would have asked.”

d’Artagnan bristles and Athos puts a placating hand on his arm—not missing the way Renard’s eyes narrow contemplatively at the gesture. It makes him sick to think that Renard might consider his relationship with d’Artagnan to be similar to the one they …

No. Not thinking about that. _No._

“We slept fine,” he lies and puts some distance between himself and d’Artagnan, taking the seat next to Renard.

Renard hums knowingly, gazing moving to Athos’ face. Athos wonders if he looks as frayed and exhausted as he feels. He has not stood in front of a mirror in days, but weeks of sleepless nights and strung-out nerves and too much wine have no doubt paled his skin and etched dark circles under his eyes. It’s almost unfair: he is falling apart, piece by painful piece while Renard looks …

Not fine, actually.

Renard has always been handsome—dark eyes, carefully groomed black hair and goatee, sharp cheekbones, a winning smile if you looked past the violence lurking in it—but there are fresh lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes and he looks noticeably thinner. Like someone has stretched his skin too tightly over his bones.

 _Sickness?_ Athos immediately thinks, then dismisses it.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.

“So what is your plan?” he asks when he realizes that the silence has stretched on too long to be comfortable—both of them sitting here staring at each other like …

_No._

“So impatient,” Renard scolds, amused. “Food first, then business. And you still haven’t given me your official answer. Do I have your cooperation and the support of your friends? I’m presuming yes, since you’ve so obediently spent the night in your tent, but I’d like a formal confirmation, darling.”

“It isn’t like you’ve given us a choice,” d’Artagnan mutters.

Renard laughs and pulls a fish from the fire, passing it to d’Artagnan along with a plate. “Of course, I gave you a choice. You could have walked out of here last night without trouble, we both know that.” He extends the second plate to Athos with a smirk. “Yet here you are.”

Athos takes the plate, managing not to cringe when their fingers touch. He wants to immediately turn his attention to the food, stave off the answer Renard is expecting, but Renard’s gaze has him pinned like a butterfly on a wall. And besides, Renard always gets what he wants—to resist is only to prolong the inevitable. He learned that long ago.

“You have our cooperation,” he says. “Mine and d’Artagnan’s and two others.”

“Aramis and Porthos,” Renard says with a nod. At Athos’ startled look, he smiles. “I still have my birds, darling.”

d’Artagnan gives voice to the question Athos doesn’t dare put forth. “So, you’ve been watching us?”

Renard takes a bite of his fish, speaks through it. “Only recently. I’ve kept track of the musketeers’ investigation into this, of course. Though I didn’t connect Athos to you until you sent a message. I didn’t mention it before, but the new name suits you, darling. An excellent choice.”

Athos blows out a long breath, repressing the strange and stupid urge to say _thank you._

“I’m glad you approve,” he drawls instead.

“This new personality suits you, as well,” Renard says, delighted. “I’m almost proud.”

A shiver runs down Athos’ spine at the look on Renard’s face—an expression reminiscent of their final weeks together, after Athos stopped fighting, gave in to the inevitable, and it was …

It was _good,_ he makes himself admit, filled with loathing. It was good, he _enjoyed_ it—gentleness and intimacy after so much pain—and that is one of the many crimes he will never seek forgiveness for. That is the detail he has never breathed to anyone, even Aramis. He had been determined to take it with him to his grave and in the meantime never touch another person that way again, lest he stain them with the dirt still sleeping under his skin.

But now Renard is here and Renard _knows_ and like with so many other things, Renard may not give him a choice.

 _Eat,_ he tells himself viciously. _Don’t think. Just eat._

His stomach churns at the thought of food, but he wills his shaking hands to move and tackles breakfast one stubborn bite at a time.

d’Artagnan finishes first and, setting the plate aside, promptly asks, “The plan?”

Bless his youthful courage.

“Not yet,” Renard says. “We have to wait for our other guests.” He glances up at the sun now bright in the cloudless sky. “I imagine they’ll be along soon.”

There are only two people he can be talking about. In spite of the muggy summer heat cloying the air around them, Athos feels cold down to his bones. “What have you done?”

Renard smiles. “Relax, darling. I haven’t done a thing.”

“What are you talking about?” d’Artagnan glances back and forth between them. Comprehension quickly dawns. “Aramis and Porthos?”

Renard doesn’t acknowledge him. “They call you the Inseparables, don’t they? I don’t _have_ to do anything.”

Athos longs for his pistol. Contemplates settling for punching Renard in the face, though he knows he would never be able to actually force his body to move.

d’Artagnan’s hands are fists clenched on top of his thighs and his gaze is fire. “If you hurt them-”

“I haven’t hurt anyone yet, have I?” Renard cuts him off with an arched eyebrow. “Settle down, puppy.”

Athos wants to laugh and never stop. Wants to come apart and just _be done with it._

He’s so tired.

At least the exhaustion is lessening the fear.

“Fine. If we’re waiting,” he holds out his plate, “another fish, please.”

d’Artagnan shoots him a disbelieving look, but backs down and follows his lead. “For me, too.”

Renard laughs and complies. Silence settles in again, heavy, and the sun climbs steadily higher—the heat pressing in like a physical thing.

Athos reminds himself to _breathe._ Just breathe.

 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

 

Dawn.

They left the city behind two hours ago and now the sky is lightening overhead. The instructions scribbled on the piece of paper are vague without a proper map to match them up to, but Aramis suspects the correct location won’t be too difficult to find. Athos most likely managed it without a map, as well—the author of this message _wants_ to be found.

The field they’re traversing gives way to thick forest, blocking out the rising sun. Aramis reluctantly slows his horse to a walk, ignoring the frantic drumbeat in his chest of _faster faster faster._ If his horse trips and breaks a leg all his urgency will be for nothing.

“We’re gettin’ close,” Porthos says, scanning the trees. “I can feel it.”

Aramis can, too: a prickling at the back of his neck, like eyes watching them from the shadows between the trees. He rests a hand on his _harquebus_ and notices Porthos does the same with his sword.

“What do you think?” he whispers. “Ambush?”

Porthos hums in agreement. “Armed welcomin’ party, at least. This is Renard we’re talkin’ about.”

“True. Enough for us to take?”

“Doubt it.”

He does, too. But the current plan is merely for them to end up in the same place as Athos, not storm Renard’s camp. If the man still has the extensive operation he did five years ago then they don’t stand a chance in hell, anyway. Better an escape than a doomed raid.

It still isn’t easy to let go of his weapon when riders materialize ahead of him with pistols drawn.

“At least it wasn’t an ambush,” Porthos mutters, putting his hands in the air.

“No,” Aramis agrees through the rage still seething in his chest. “This is much politer.”

One of the riders approaches, keeping his pistol levelled at Aramis’s head. When he stops a few feet away, Aramis forces a bright smile onto his face. “Good morning. I presume you’re here to take us to Le Renard?”

“We’d really like to speak with ‘im,” Porthos adds without any of Aramis’ levity.

“Hand over your weapons,” is all the rider says.

Aramis grits his teeth and complies, reminding himself that this is for Athos. All they need to do is get to Athos and make certain that he’s okay. From there, they can decide on next steps—perhaps even dismantling Renard’s operation from within. Another rider has moved forward to strip Porthos of his pistol, sword, _main gauche,_ and rifle. With further prompting, Porthos also reluctantly removes a dagger from his doublet and another from his boot.

“Gloves and pauldron,” the first rider commands.

"You can’t be serious,” Aramis says.

The rider waves his pistol impatiently. Aramis strips off his gloves and unbuckles his uniform pauldron from his shoulder, handing them both over.

“Please be careful,” he says as the rider stuffs the items into his saddlebag. “Those aren’t easily replaceable.”

“Yeah,” Porthos gripes as he passes his to the second rider. “We want those back.”

 Rider One smirks at them and waves his pistol again, urging them forward.

Aramis tries to look on the bright side as he spurs his horse into a walk again. At least the first, and so far, only, step of their plan is a success. Instead of triumph though, he only feels persistent fear, lurking in every heartbeat.

 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

 

They stop after a few miles of riding, still deep in the forest, and Rider One holds up a rough sack.

Aramis was expecting this, too, but it’s still deeply unpleasant to have the sack shoved over his head and his hands tied in front of him.  

“Is this really necessary?” he asks, muffled by the thick fabric. “We were cooperating very nicely.”

Porthos grunts in frustrated agreement.  

None of their escort answer. Aramis grips his saddle for balance and blows out a tired breath. At least this means they’re close and soon, very soon, he will be able to verify if Athos is safe and unhurt and calm the panic gnawing at the back of his skull like a ravenous beast.

And it can’t be more than half an hour before they stop again and the sacks are removed. Aramis winces at the harsh sunlight, ducking his head to let his vision adjust. When the spots have cleared, he checks on Porthos—disgruntled, but fine—and then his surroundings. They’re on the edge of a surprisingly small camp, clustered at the end of a shallow gorge and surrounded by towering rocks on all sides. And okay, he grudgingly admits to himself, this probably would have taken him and Porthos a while to find, even with the instructions.

Rider One gestures for him to dismount. Hands are staying tied, then.

He swings his leg over his horse’s neck and slides off, stumbling a little when he hits the ground but staying upright. Porthos mimics him, though without the stumble—somehow managing to loom threateningly even with his hands tied.

It’s a particular gift of Porthos’ that he’s always been envious of.

“All right,” Porthos says, authoritative. “Where’s Renard?”

“Gentlemen,” a voice says from their left, deceptively pleasant, “right on time.”

Aramis turns and there he is. Shorter than Aramis was expecting and maddeningly normal—a face that Aramis wouldn’t give more than a passing acknowledgment if he saw it in a crowd. Dressed in simple clothes with a hat perched rakishly on his head, covering dark hair. He’s smiling, oozing charm, and Aramis’ fingers itch for his sword to run him through. See if he bleeds normal, too, or if his black soul has tainted his insides like poison.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Renard continues, spreading his arms wide. When he steps closer, Aramis notices the slight limp he’s trying to hide and files it away. “Humble, but thankfully temporary.”

Porthos makes a low, furious sound. “Where’s Athos, you bastard?”

Renard’s amiable expression doesn’t waver. “Athos is fine. Patience, darling. If you both continue to cooperate, I’ll take you to him.”

Fine. Two can play this game.

Aramis relaxes his shoulders and stitches on his most charismatic smile, lifting his bound arms. “Of course. We came peacefully, as your men can tell you. So perhaps you can take off these ropes and let us see Athos?”

Renard’s gaze is sharp, assessing—as cunning as his namesake—and Aramis stubbornly refuses to waver beneath it.

“Of course,” he says after a moment, tipping his hat. “They were simply a necessary precaution. I’m sure you understand.”

He signals one of his men, who comes forward with a knife and slices through the ropes around Aramis’ wrists. He rubs at the raw skin and notes with amusement that the man approaches Porthos far more cautiously, skittering out of range as soon as Porthos is free. Since Porthos still looks one breath away from caving someone’s face in, that’s probably wise.

 _Calm,_ Aramis tells him with a glance.

Porthos’ answering glare screams _piss off,_ but he does loosen his stance.

“Right,” Renard says, clapping his hands together. No doubt he picked up on their wordless exchange. Aramis tries not to let that unsettle him. “This way, please, gentlemen.”

He leads them to a large tent on the far side of the camp, backed up right against the rocks, and beckons them inside. Aramis ducks through first and promptly freezes. Athos, in the middle of pacing a furrow into the dirt, does, too. The rest of the world falls away as Aramis takes him in: tired, _exhausted,_ but no visible wounds; hands trembling, body coiled like a spring, but eyes present and focused. Then Aramis is across the tent before he’s even aware of moving, gripping Athos’ shoulders.

Athos looks at him with something close to dismay. “Aramis.”

“ _Idiota,”_ Aramis blurts, fighting the urge to shake Athos or hug him and never let go. “Are you hurt?”

“d’Artagnan?” Porthos says from behind him and only then does Aramis notice the boy over Aramis shoulder, sitting on a nearby cot.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

d’Artagnan’s mouth twists. “Nice to see you, too.”

“He followed me,” Athos murmurs and now Aramis wants to hit them both.

“Are you hurt?” he repeats instead, tightening his grip on Athos’ shoulders and silently pleading with him not to lie.

Athos shakes his head and something in Aramis’ chest loosens, makes it easier to breathe.  _Thank God, thank God, thank God._

“Well, this is a touching reunion,” Renard says. “Athos, darling, why don’t you fill them in? I have a few things to attend to.”

He exits and, to Aramis’ shock, doesn’t bother posting a guard before he disappears into the camp.

“I can’t believe you two,” Porthos says, drawing Aramis’ attention back to the tent. “What the hell were you thinkin’?”

He still marches over and pulls a startled d’Artagnan into a hug.

“Ask him,” d’Artagnan says when Porthos releases him, nodding to Athos. “I only followed him because I didn’t think he should be alone.”

Aramis swallows down a stab of guilt. No, he shouldn’t have been. This is as much their fault as Athos’ stupid tendency towards martyrdom. Porthos sighs and reaches over to cup the back of Athos’ neck, squeezing lightly. “Fine. What the hell were _you_ thinkin’?”

“That we were out of options,” Athos says, shaking free of them and wiping a hand over his face.

“No, we weren’t,” Aramis argues.

“Well, this got us results.”

“This is _not_ a result.”

“Yes, it is. Renard is apparently on our side.”

 _That_ throws Aramis off-balance.

“What?” Porthos says. “You serious?”

Athos nods. “He claims that a former lieutenant staged a coup, took most of his men, and went into business on his own. Renard is looking to eliminate him.”

“And where, exactly, do you fit into this?” Aramis asks, dreading the answer.

Athos _meant_ something to Renard, Aramis has always known this. He can read as much in Athos’ nightmares, in the all the things he doesn’t say, in the inflection Renard uses when _darling_ spills past his lips. It is hard to believe that this isn’t an opportunity for Renard to reclaim a lost possession—that he lured Athos here with absolutely no intention of ever letting him go and Athos, blinded by his ghosts and guilt, isn’t going to put up a fight.

“ _We,_ actually,” d’Artagnan says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Renard’s forces are severely depleted and he isn’t sure who he can trust among his remaining men. He wants us to help us dismantle the lieutenant’s operation.”

Porthos snorts. “In exchange for what?”

“An end to all this,” Athos says.

“And technically my life,” d’Artagnan adds. “Though he insists that we can leave if we want.”

“Then let’s leave,” Aramis says. “Right now. He didn’t post a guard.”

Athos, predictably, shakes his head. Aramis _aches._ “No. He has information we need.”

“ _Athos,”_ Aramis says, half-begging.

“I’m _fine,”_ Athos insists. “I can handle this, Aramis. And when this is over, we can arrest him and watch him choke on the end of a rope.”

“Or just put a bullet in ‘is head,” Porthos says, grim.

“This is a terrible idea,” Aramis protests, reaching for Athos again.

Athos dodges his outstretched hand, jaw set—a familiar, stubborn fire in his eyes. “But necessary. Trust me.”

Aramis _does,_ with his life, but _this?_ He’s not sure Athos is strong enough, not sure how deep Renard’s claws go.

He glances to Porthos, seeking guidance. Porthos dips his head: a tiny gesture of reassurance.

Aramis sighs in surrender. “Fine. We do this your way.”

“Well, we’re still waiting for his plan, so I’m not sure what that way _is_ ,” d’Artagnan says, dry.

Athos keeps his gaze on Aramis. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, _mon ami.”_

Aramis just desperately hopes he won’t regret it.


End file.
